Comfort Me With Apples
by Dala1
Summary: Comfort me with apples, for I am sick of love.' That's what Jack thinks, anyway. He isn't looking for Will to prove him wrong.


Title: Comfort Me With Apples  
  
Author: Dala  
  
Rating: R for sexual sitations  
  
Pairing: Jack/Will. Yeah, with the slash. Purty to me, but if it's not to your liking, look elsewhere.  
  
Disclaimer: The characters and situations of this fanfic belong to Disney, etc. Making no profit. The line "Comfort me with apples, for I am sick of love" is from _Song of Solomon_ in the Bible, and therefore belongs to...ummm...well, Solomon probably didn't actually write it...damn, I should have paid more attention in Biblical Foundations class...anyway, I love that line but I certainly didn't write it.  
  
Author's Notes: I wrote this baby *quick*. Me, study for finals? Surely you jest. Beth gets a mini-beta credit for helping me deliberate over the placing of a single comma. Partial inspiration goes to "From Hell," which is a crappy movie, but stars Johnny Depp and he is always The Sexy.   
  
~~~~~~~~  
  
When Will arrives on the Black Pearl, he looks more like a boy than he did when Jack saw him last. He looks as he did in the pub at Tortuga, lost and afraid and desperate to hide it. Jack questions him about Elizabeth and his dark eyes close off; that's all the answer Jack needs.  
  
As the first week passes, he spends much time walking the deck from end to end and gazing passively over the side. He'll jump to eagerly if someone has a task for him, but when he's on his own, he wanders. They haven't run across any other ships, and Jack would prefer to let the boy settle in before he goes looking for them. On the sixth night he goes to the little cabin next to his own, the one he's given Will, who is sitting on the edge of his bed and facing the door. For an unsettling moment Jack thinks Will was somehow expecting him, but one look at his startled face and that fear is laid to rest.  
  
Will brushes grubby fingers at his cheeks. His eyes shine bright with the rest of his tears.  
  
"Homesick, are you?"  
  
"No," says Will, too quickly. Off of Jack's raised eyebrows, he amends it to a sheepish, "Perhaps, a little."  
  
"Here," Jack commands, crooking his finger. Will stands and cocks his head to one side in confusion, as Jack takes him by the upper arms and brings him close.  
  
"There are things we do for one another, at sea," Jack explains softly, kissing him on the forehead where his brows turn in. He can feel Will tremble and he soothes him with his hands, as he would coax a shuddering vessel into holding that much longer during a storm. "They are not to be spoken of," he says, a bit sharply, when Will opens his mouth.  
  
He turns them both, taking Will with him as he backs up and puts a knee on the bed, balances carefully until the other follows, leans back with Will rocking forward in tandem, drawn by some tide that is Jack's to command.  
  
"Now take your comfort," Jack breathes before he catches Will's mouth with his own. For a moment he meets resistance, before Will's hands tangle in his hair and he is being pushed instead of having to pull.  
  
Will falls asleep immediately after, on his stomach with one arm dropped carelessly across Jack's chest. Jack maneuvers out from under it without waking him and dresses in the dark, accidentally putting his breeches on inside out. When he has rectified the mistake, he pauses and allows himself a moment to look. It is a rare thing for someone like Jack to watch anyone as he sleeps, especially someone like Will. The boy turns his head to the other side, his lips slightly parted as his breath escapes and is drawn back in an unconscious cadence. Jack brushes a stray curl off of his face – he is so beautiful, and it would be so easy to lie back down beside him...no. Not to be spoken of, Jack reminds himself, and leaves Will to the first peaceful slumber he's had in days.  
  
In the morning, there is a newfound ease in Will's steps, a greater commitment to his new line of work; he plies Jack with questions all day long until Jack is thoroughly and delightedly irritated. And true to his words – somewhere between a statement, a request, and a command – what transpired the night before is not spoken of. Nor is it repeated when the sun sets, and Jack figures that his work in this department is done. Let the whores and the drunken cabin boys teach him whatever else he wants to know about the pleasures of the flesh.  
  
For a couple of months, things proceed as Jack has planned. Will is the kind of companion Jack's been missing since his father – and he didn't truly understand how much he had missed that depth of friendship until he had it again. The possibility for any closer relations is never once brought to light, not even when Jack has imbibed quite a lot of alcohol and his desire is raging through his blood. He didn't save a single shot for nearly ten years by indulging his every base urge to use it, after all.  
  
One night in Tortuga the tables turn. They visit a tavern that Jack hasn't been to in years. For an hour or so he squints around the smoky dark room, something about it niggling at the back of his mind. He finally remembers an incident with Bill, three lovely ladies, a stolen case of rum and a very quick trip out of town. Upon taking another sip of his drink, he's certain that this was the place; the rum's good enough that he would have wanted to sneak some away.  
  
The memory hurts sharply, in part because he's got Bill's son at his side, laughing and talking – never as loudly as Jack himself, but he attracts just as many lusty hangers-on. His tolerance for drink is growing by leaps and bounds, too; he can almost keep up with Jack, on a good night.  
  
Still the memory pains him, and so he drinks more heavily than he normally would on land. He's always a bit more reserved anywhere that's not his beloved Pearl, because there are too many outside factors denying him the control he likes. Will has to half-drag him back to his cabin, grumbling as he says goodbye to the raven-haired beauty he'd been chatting up. Once they're there, Will sits beside him and rubs his back. His eyes are sad, and Jack knows that he knows – has no idea how he possibly could, but is nonetheless certain of it. With a surety he picked up only God knows where, his arm slides around Jack's waist and his soft lips find Jack's own.  
  
"What –" Jack begins.  
  
"Hush," says Will. "Things we do for one another at sea, remember?" He kisses Jack again and Jack lets out a sound that is too close to a whimper.  
  
"Will..."  
  
Will pulls off his shirt in one deft movement. "I can give comfort as I take it, Jack. It is my choice to give it to you. Please accept it," he concludes, oddly formal, and Jack does.   
  
This time it's Will who leaves Jack asleep – or rather, pretending to sleep – and he doesn't pause before he goes.  
  
After that, their nighttime encounters take on a sort of spontaneous rhythm; there is no set schedule, but they never go too long without. The reasons vary. They nearly always fall into each other after a raid, burning off the excess adrenalin with good rum and better sex. On more than one occasion, a nasty bar fight causes either Jack or Will to be pulled away from some potential lover, and the other is more than happy to take his or her place once they've hightailed it back to the ship. Each grows keenly aware of the crests and swells of his counterpart's moods, and moments of regret, remorse, or remembered loss are assuaged with skillful kisses and limbs twisting wantonly under the sheets. Still they don't speak of these small comforts, but what they are even more careful not to speak of is the way they've grown accustomed to sharing a bed. No more do they pull on wrinkled clothing and leave once their desires are sated; now they are content to fall asleep in one another's arms and wake up the same way. Even on nights when no heated passions are exchanged, it isn't uncommon for Will to come crawling into Jack's bed, or vice versa, just for the simple weight of someone else's body next to his own.  
  
Things don't change because of this additional tenet of their friendship. The only incident that threatens change takes place nearly four years after Will joins the crew of the Pearl. He has shown a disturbing propensity for falling in love frequently and, to Jack's intense relief, out again nearly as quickly. His longest affair is with a pretty red-haired barmaid in Kingston. For sixth months he swoons over her, writing shockingly bad poetry about her green eyes and pleading with Jack to keep close to the port so that he might row over to see his Annie now and then. Finally, they make a formal stop to trade and barter, Jack renting a room overhead Annie's uncle's tavern just so he never forgets what it's like to sleep on dry land. Or so he tells his crew; in actuality, he's a bit nervous about Will's still-hot passions for his current lady. Although it doesn't keep Jack out of his bed, for which he is exceedingly grateful, the lad's youthful fervor should have cooled long ago.  
  
Jack is sleeping badly on an uncomfortable mattress when raised voices from below wake him. It's Will's he makes out first, and the higher voice is no doubt the young miss Annie. He can't make out what Will is saying; after that initial yell, his voice drops down to what is probably a more reasonable tone. His lady, on the other hand, is screeching out invective at such a speed as to render her nearly impossible to understand. There is the unmistakable sound of glass shattering against a plaster wall, Will's shouted final attempt at appeasement, and then the front door slamming. The fight stemmed the flow of talk and merriment in the tavern, but it soon picks up again, a discordant lullaby which Jack is perfectly able to ignore.  
  
He has a fairly good idea of where Will is going head next, and sure enough, within minutes a bedraggled figure is creeping through his open window.  
  
Jack hides his grin against the pillow.  
  
"'Comfort me with apples, for I am sick of love,'" Will quotes with a heavy sigh, flopping onto the bed.  
  
"Much as I always liked that passage, m'boy, apples put me in mind of a certain mangy pirate captain, currently dead, so I'd rather not."  
  
"Grapes, then?" Will offers thoughtfully.  
  
"Haven't got any," says Jack.  
  
"Right," says Will, sighing again.  
  
Jack keeps his tone purposefully neutral. "No more Annie?"  
  
"No more Annie," Will affirms ruefully. "And I'm dead tired. Can I sleep here?"  
  
"They think you've gone. If you get caught, I'm making you pay."  
  
Will takes off his boots and his shirt and snuggles in, immediately laying claim to more than his fair share of the covers, which is usually Jack's task. "That's perfectly acceptable."  
  
Jack kicks him lightly. "I meant with money, whelp."  
  
"Hmmm. In that case, I'll pass." He nestles against Jack's back. Jack has half a mind to drag him back to the Pearl and make him forget about that Annie lass so effectively that he has trouble walking tomorrow, but he has been through quite an ordeal, so Jack forbears. For now.  
  
Presently he becomes aware of a heat and a pressure behind him with which he is quite familiar.  
  
"Will," he warns.  
  
"Yes?" says Will, the hand sliding up the inside of Jack's thigh totally antithetical to his innocent tone.  
  
Jack turns, twisting his body out of Will's reach. Will pouts. "Things we do at sea," Jack reminds him.  
  
His eyes light up. "If I bounce on the bed, it'll be like waves – then will you sleep with me?"  
  
"Hmph. Try it," says Jack after a pause during which he pretends to disapprove. He's incapable of refusing his first mate in a particularly amorous mood, and they both know it.  
  
Will bounces obligingly, eventually landing with his knees and hands planted on either side of Jack.  
  
"How's that?" That husky tremor is in his voice, the one that gets to Jack every damn time.  
  
"Good enough," he murmurs, abandoning all pretense and yanking him down to kiss and touch and take.  
  
Afterwards Will falls asleep easily, as he always does. He's still boyish in his looks, but he only truly seems like a child when he sleeps and all his muscles go slack. Jack holds him and feels his arms tighten of their own accord around the boy – the man, if he's to be fair – he's grown to need so badly.  
  
For some reason he thinks of the stone over his mother's grave. He's sure it isn't there now, since he stole it and then left town before anyone had the chance to notice its absence, but it was a thing of beauty. Expensive white marble, heavy but small enough for a skinny twelve-year-old boy to lug across a cemetery late at night, in the shape of an angel. He hugged it to his chest much as he's hugging Will now. He traces Will's shoulder blades, where wings would fit if he and the stone angel were one and the same.  
  
They're not at sea now.  
  
"William," he gasps, frightened by the sudden pain gripping his heart, his throat.  
  
Will grumbles. "Wha'?"  
  
Jack's nerve fails him. "Nothing. Go back to sleep." Will kisses him drowsily, in the hollow of his throat, before his breathing deepens once more.  
  
It is necessary for Jack to watch himself a bit more closer after that.  
  
Two more years pass without significant incident, and then it happens: Will finds a girl that sticks, and he announces his intention to leave pirating and take up the trade of blacksmithing once more.  
  
There is no parting night between the two of them. Jack avoids Will until the very last moment, when he has a pack of his belongings and his share of the Pearl's coffers slung over his shoulder and a fiancee awaiting him on the main dock in Port Morant.  
  
Jack straightens the scarf around Will's neck. "Can't believe you're turning respectable on me now." He thinks he might be coming down with something; it feels like there's a chicken bone lodged in his throat and the skin around his eyes is too tight. His hands, for once, are relatively quiet, and his speech seems stilted without them for emphasis.  
  
Will gives him a half-smile. "Going to try, anyway. Consider this my retirement."  
  
"Pirates don't really retire, you know. We always say we will, but we'll either be killed, or we'll keep searching out that one last treasure before we vanish into the mists forever."  
  
"This line of conversation is far too morbid for my tastes," says Will. He clears his throat. "We're thinking of March, for the wedding. Will you be around?"  
  
"Oh, might be," Jack replies, stroking his chin thoughtfully. "I'm thinking of heading to India, though, and if the weather's bad..."  
  
Will shifts his pack, looking down at the deck beneath his feet. "Of course." There's a pause, and Jack knows he's supposed to say something else, but he's being choked. Will would understand. After all, Jack understands, about this. He's gone through the same thing with Bill, but Bill came back to him, at least part of the way. He has no reason to believe such a thing will happen to him a second time, and sometimes he thinks that Bill's death is his fault in a significant way; that he was at least partly responsible for Bill Turner's tie to the sea, and the sea turned out to be the thing that killed him.  
  
If the same thing happened to Will...well. He isn't going to let it happen. It's that simple.  
  
Will looks up at him suddenly, with wide dark eyes. "You're not going to ask me to stay?" It's hard to see past the sadness in his voice; Jack chooses to interpret it as sad determination and regret over the loss of a friend. Nothing more, nothing less.  
  
"You know I'm not," he says. He is somewhat impressed that he manages to speak steadily, that in fact his legs are supporting him at all.  
  
Will nods, a few more times than is strictly necessary. He stares at Jack as if he's trying to press Jack's face onto his memory. Jack doesn't have to do that. Every time he closes his eyes, he knows, Will is all he'll be able to see.  
  
He thinks, 'don't touch me, don't touch me, don't touch me,' just as a precaution. And Will hesitates, shifts as if he's going to put his arms around Jack as he has so many times before, both in friendship and in passion. He doesn't. Jack holds out his hand and they shake firmly. It feels more horribly wrong than all the words that have been said, but Jack can't let himself care, not at this moment.  
  
"Be careful," says Will, with a final squeeze of his hand and another one of those bright smiles. Jack's heart cracks, like glacier ice, a bit more. He is anticipating its complete shattering later tonight, when he's alone in the bed that still smells of Will, though his head hasn't rested on its pillow for weeks.  
  
"Fare thee well, William Turner," he says. He clenches his toes in his boots; he can feel the shaking threatening to start, and he's trying to hold it off for just a little longer.  
  
"Fair sailing, Jack." Then he turns and strides down the gangplank. Jack doesn't stay to watch him. He retreats belowdeck and proceeds to hack at the brig, its doors never repaired after his last stint in it, with his cutlass. He has no point or purpose, just an unbearable need to cut and break. He knows his proud blade, the one Will made him, will be useless by the time he's done. He doesn't care.  
  
Anamaria finds him there. He has no memory of sliding down to his knees, but when she shakes him, that's where he is, his muscles stiff and aching. He has no memory of the past few hours. She tells him that he was saying, over and over like a prayer, a single word: 'stay.' They were afraid to disturb him.  
  
Jack retires to his cabin, too exhausted for his proposed fit of agony. It will keep till the morning, and no doubt be the stronger for it.  
  
He sleeps on his back, deeply and truly, until he is awakened by a hand shaking his shoulder and a clean scent, full of fresh water.  
  
Opening his eyes, he beholds a bunch of fat purple grapes.  
  
The hand dangling them above his nose belongs to Will, who grins at him and lets out a great breath as if he has been holding it. "Hello."  
  
Jack blinks at him. His brain is fuzzy with sleep and with surprise. "You're here," he says dumbly.  
  
"Yes," says Will. "I'm here."  
  
"But...but you're not supposed to be here."  
  
"Ah, that's where you're wrong, Sparrow." He sits down on the edge of the bed and pops a few grapes into his mouth. Jack sits up, still staring at him like he's the ghost of...Will. "Here is exactly where I'm supposed to be. And it's lucky for both of us that I realized it before it was too late."  
  
"We're miles away by now. How did you get here?"  
  
"I commandeered a nice little boat." Will says. "Nautical term, you know." Jack nods automatically. "And I rowed till I thought my arms would fall off. Then I rowed some more, and then I was alongside the Pearl. Gibbs almost shot me," he adds. "You ought to talk to him about that. And I hear you destroyed my sword. Wasteful of you, but I"ll make you a new one." He holds out a grape to Jack, who takes it and gazes at it, somewhat hysterically expecting it to tell him something. Perhaps it does, somehow, because that's when he begins to understand.  
  
Will watches his face and its dawning comprehension, waiting.  
  
Jack looks at him. "I thought you were sick of love, young Turner?" His voice is hoarse, but the corner of his mouth is twitching.  
  
"Oh, I don't know," says Will mock-idly, stretching himself out alongside Jack, one hand playing with the twin braids of his beard. "I've had thoughts of giving it one more try. A real one this time."  
  
They comfort each other with grapes, not apples, and that makes all the difference in Jack's mind.  
  
~~~~~~~~  
  
Additional note: okay, so the actual *content* of the story wasn't inspired by "From Hell," but that's where the grapes come from. 


End file.
